


Sugar

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingon tests if Maedhros’ boasts of Fëanorian tastes are true.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An anon told me on my last Russingon fic that no one cares about these hipster doofus characters. Here, have more.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When the kitchen’s safely empty and the heavy door’s shut tight, Findekáno draws his cousin to the table and sits him down. Nelyafinwë slides indulgently into the chair and chuckles, “Am I going to have to cook for you to prove it?”

“I know you think me brave,” Findekáno laughs, the golden ribbon half unthreaded from his hair, “but I am not quite brave enough to try and digest anything you made. You should stick to the forge, Nelyo.” But he still intends to push Nelyafinwë’s claim, so he steps behind Nelyafinwë’s chair with the ribbon in hand. When he draws it across Nelyafinwë’s eyes, Nelyafinwë only sighs. He submits to being blindfolded, and Findekáno ties it taut to make sure there’s no peeking.

Then he retreats to the shelves, pulling out various samplings of food onto a single plate. He’s sent the cook home early for just this purpose, but evening snacks remain. Findekáno’s sure the rich scents will give some of them away, but it doesn’t matter—the food isn’t the real point.

With a fair selection loaded up, Findekáno draws a second chair up to Nelyafinwë’s. He sets the plate on the table and could guide one of Nelyafinwë’s hands towards it, but instead he picks a crumpet up in his own fingers. 

He holds the morsel up to Nelyafinwë’s mouth, nudging gently at Nelyafinwë’s plush bottom lip. Nelyafinwë opens just a fraction, and Findekáno sucks in a breath over it before pressing harder. A chunk crumbles against the moisture offered to it, a few white-orange crumbs trickling down Nelyafinwë’s freckled chin. Nelyafinwë parts his lips properly to sink his teeth into the crumpet, and he takes his own bite to chew. 

Findekáno retracts his hand, and Nelyafinwë licks the crumbs away. He lifts one hand to help and laps his thumb clean afterwards, musing, “An apricot crumpet, with pecans and white chocolate.”

“Right,” Findekáno concedes. He’s too busy watching Nelyafinwë’s tongue at work to be impressed at the precision. When Nelyafinwë’s finished, he opens his mouth again, tilting his chin slightly up, as if to ask for _more_ by Findekáno’s hand. He obliges.

He lifts a palm-sized wafer to Nelyafinwë’s mouth, and this time, Nelyafinwë sucks it in before taking his bite, right until his pink lips are flattened against Findekáno’s fingers. The contact gives Findekáno pause, and Nelyafinwë seems to linger. When he does bite his piece off, he does so in place, leaving himself against Findekáno’s hand. He eats the rest afterwards, maybe just for show—they ate at the market and didn’t really need to come here, wouldn’t have if Nelyafinwë hadn’t bolstered Turcafinwë’s bragging. Nelyafinwë can’t be hungry. Yet he finishes it off and licks at Findekáno’s fingers when he’s done, not helping matters at all.

The real reason Findekáno lured Nelyafinwë to his kitchens is getting more tempting every minute. Nelyafinwë leans forward when the wafer’s gone and nuzzles into Findekáno’s hand as though checking for more, and purrs against his skin, “A pecan-caramel wafer.” Findekáno can _feel_ Nelyafinwë’s smile as much as see it. “You see? The Fëanorian palette is flawless.”

Perhaps. The plate is full of other options, but Findekáno only insists on: “One more.”

Nelyafinwë obediently parts his lips again. Findekáno means to pull his hand away but instead slips it along Nelyafinwë’s cheek, brushing over the silken ribbon that robs Nelyafinwë of warning, and weaves long fingers into Nelyafinwë’s copper hair. 

Findekáno leans forward, hesitates only for a second, and presses their lips together.

He can feel Nelyafinwë’s quickened breath. He can feel just how soft, how pliant Nelyafinwë’s mouth is, the bottom still damp from being licked clean. Everything Findekáno is urges him to do _more_ , to slip his tongue right inside and _taste_ everything he can, but it isn’t fair, and he holds himself back, keeps it chaste, his nose alongside Nelyafinwë’s and his lashes tight against his cheeks. He keeps waiting for Nelyafinwë to pull away. 

But Findekáno is the one to part them first. He sinks back into his chair and waits, wondering if this was the right way to do it at all. He’s wanted to for so long that there never seems to be a right moment. He feels unduly hot under his skin. It’s tempting to run, but he is, at least, brave enough to give Nelyafinwë the courtesy of an explanation.

Nelyafinwë lifts tentative fingers to his lips. They rise and hesitate, as though toying with the idea of removing the blindfold, but then that hand drops, and Nelyafinwë asks, “Can I have more of that last one?”

Findekáno can’t help a little laugh. It comes with a huge swell of relief.

He leans over to close the distance again, reaching back to loose the knot on his ribbon. This time, Nelyafinwë tilts and presses into him harder, parts his lips with a quick tongue and slips inside, and Findekáno’s left to mewl happily and return the favour. As the ribbon falls away, both of Nelyafinwë’s hands thread back into Findekáno’s hair. There was always fear, of course. Their connection is too precious to Findekáno to sully if Nelyafinwë didn’t want the same thing. But he always suspected this was mutual, could feel the heat in Nelyafinwë’s gaze whenever Nelyafinwë looked at him, knew that Nelyafinwë’s touch always lingered a fraction too long and squeezed a smidgen too tight. Now Nelyafinwë kisses with such intensity that Findekáno’s nearly knocked out of his chair. His temperature spikes all the higher, the joy at Nelyafinwë’s kiss sparking all along his skin. Every swipe of tongue is like a bolt of lightning to Findekáno’s trembling body.

The door groans in the background, and Findekáno pushes swiftly away. Nelyafinwë straightens, startled. 

Irissë slips into the kitchen.

She looks straight across the stone floors and asks, “Is the cook finished making ginger cookies?”

Findekáno has no idea if they were made or not. Worse, he’s sure his face is flushed and his dizziness is obvious. He answers as best he can, “I apologize—I sent her home early.”

“What did you do that for?” Irissë huffs. She seems thankfully oblivious to what she’s walked in on, but her displeasure keeps her routed to the spot, hands landing squarely on her hips. 

Nelyafinwë tells her, “We will make some for you.”

“Really?” Irissë blinks, arms falling. Findekáno looks at Nelyafinwë, but it’s too late: the damage is done. Irissë must not know what Findekáno does of Nelyafinwë’s cooking skills, because she decides, “Thank you, Nelyo. That would be lovely.”

“Happy to serve,” Nelyafinwë responds with a pleasant smile. He’s the picture of civility, and Irissë’s always liked him.

She leaves as quickly as she came, looking quite delighted and shutting the door right behind her. It muffles the sound of her retreating footsteps, but Findekáno waits a few extra seconds anyway before he snorts, “You have no idea how to make ginger cookies.”

“I haven’t the need to,” Nelyafinwë quips, “For all I intend to get my hands on is _you._ ”

If there were more distance between them, Findekáno would roll his eyes. But they’re sitting so close that there’s no room to do anything when Nelyafinwë comes at him, and he winds up on the floor with a great red heap in his arms. Irissë’s dessert will have to wait, because they’re already lost in each other’s mouths.


End file.
